


Unbroken

by Sinelaborenihil



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinelaborenihil/pseuds/Sinelaborenihil
Summary: Indira Surana gives herself up to save her friends and finds herself a prisoner in Fort Drakkon. She must dig deep within herself to find the courage to face the horrors that await her and last until her companions come to the rescue.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Surana
Kudos: 21





	Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: TORTURE, THREATS OF RAPE, THIS FIC IS MOSTLY REALLY DARK**
> 
> I have always felt that it would make sense if the HOF was subjected to physical reprisal if not out-and-out torture while in Fort Drakkon. I decided to lean into that darkness for the duration of this fic. I was also inspired by last week's Dragon Age subreddit writing prompt: Kill me, and you will never find out where she is.

If he’d had the chance, Zevran would have stopped her. It had all been going so well. They had succeeded in breaking into the Arl of Denerim’s castle. They had freed everyone in the dungeon. Rendon Howe was even dead. And now, now they had freed Anora and were supposed to make their glorious escape...only to be caught by Ser Cauthrien. And it was looking like it was going to be a good fight when the Warden, his Warden, his amora had held up a hand. “I will go peacefully,” she said.  


Even Ser Cauthrien had seemed surprised. But Indira had had an answer for that as she did for everything.  


“If we kill them, all we do is confirm what Loghain has been saying about us.” She took a deep breath and nodded. “Let my friends go, and I shall come peacefully.”  


The sight of the teryn’s guards putting their hands on her had inflamed something primal in him and he was reaching for his blades before he could think. Next to him he felt Sten doing the same.  


“No,” she’d said in the quiet voice she used to snap orders when they were trying to sneak past a group of enemies. “Please go with Wynne back to Arl Eamon’s estate.”  


“Kadan,” Sten said, the disapproval obvious in his voice. His heavy brow was creased with worry. “I cannot let you-”  


“Sten,” she said, and the look she gave him halted the big man in his tracks and with a miserable look, he sheathed the blade he called Asala. “Yes, Kadan.”  


“But, Indira-” Zevran heard himself say, not releasing his hold on his sword. “These men-  


“Sten, Zevran,” her eyes met each of theirs in turn. “Please do as I say. I don’t want there to be any further bloodshed today, not if it can be avoided. Please see the queen to safety. I’ll be ok,” she finished with a little smile. But Zevran could see the fear in her eyes. “Wynne, please make sure they go”.  


The older woman nodded and with that the guards yanked Indira’s hands behind her back and drew her away. Zevran took a step towards them and felt a pair of strong hands close around his arm. Sten was shaking his head. A few more guards appeared to escort them out and when they were outside the castle Zevran whirled around and punched the Qunari in the chest.  


Sten looked down at him with one eyebrow raised while Wynne shook her head. “Did that make you feel better?” Sten asked, his lip curling just slightly. “Did you think that I enjoyed leaving her behind, Zevran?”  


Normally Zevran would have retorted, but he could see plain as day the pain on Sten’s face. “No. No, my friend, I do not. I-I am sorry.”  


“We will get her back,” Wynne promised. “Let us go talk to the Arl.”

####

Indira Surana shivered as she was dragged down into the dungeons of Fort Drakon. She had put on a brave face to ensure that her friends and the queen could escape safely, but she could not deny her fear. The ones who had captured her were not inclined towards kindness. She had seen the evidence of it in the dungeons she’d delved into below the former Arl of Denerim’s estate.  


She was taken to a cell with a heavy wooden door, where her armor was unceremoniously stripped from her. Her staff had long since been taken. Ser Cauthrien stayed while they took the armor off, presumably to make sure that other liberties weren’t taken as well. And then the door was locked and Indira was left alone to stew.  


She curled up in the far corner of the cell and wrapped her arms around her legs, trying not to panic. Her friends were on the outside, assuming Cauthrien was honest and kept to her word. She knew that they would come for her. _Thank the Creators that I did not allow Alistair to come on this mission._ She knew that she was a mage and an elf, sheltered and half-wild by these human’s standards, but even she knew that bringing the heir apparent into the clutches of the very people who wanted to supplant him was a bad idea.  


But it meant that she was now here, in the dark, cold, blood-soaked place by herself. The tears came unbidden and she felt the warmth of them trickling down her face. She swiped at them angrily. 

_Crying won’t get you out of here,_ she told herself. _Breathe, you’ve been in worse situations._ True though that may be, she hadn’t been a prisoner in any of them. Still, she had to think, had to plan. But try as she might, nothing came to her. She jumped at a voice from the next cell.  


“You look like you’ve been dragged through ten kinds of crap, friend. What did you do?”  


The two exchanged words and Indira found herself biting back irritation at his dismissal of the fact that her friends would come looking for her. She knew that they would. She hoped Alistair would obey her orders to stay back -- they could hardly risk Marric’s heir -- but Zevran would come. She swallowed hard as she scooted back and rested her back against the stone wall facing the barred door.  


“Ah,” said a gruff voice. “You’re awake.”  


Forcing herself to breathe as calmly as she was able through her pain, Indira sized up the guard who stood outside. He had broad shoulders, even for a human, and his face was clean shaven. He looked older than her, perhaps between Bann Teagan and Arl Eamon’s age. His dark hair was closely cropped, and his armor wasn’t that of the Fort Drakkon guards.  
It was Templar armor.  


_Creators, preserve me,_ Indira thought.  


“Glad you’re awake, Warden,” the man said. “Now we can begin.”  


“Begin what?” Indira asked, pressing her back into the wall as he came in and trying to exude something akin to confidence.  


The older man gave her a look. “You have acted against our rightful regent, Teryn Loghain. You and the Wardens are planning something. We need to know what.”  


_They are going to torture me,_ Indira realized, a chill settling over her. “I am brand new to the order,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Surely you don’t think that I would know anything of importance!”  


“You were at Ostagar," the man said. "My brother died at Ostagar thanks to the Gray Warden's betrayal." He gave a pair of manacles affixed to a long chain a tug and they untangled for him. Quickly, Indira found her arms bound over her head. "Personal reasons aside, there’s always a chance that you will tell us something useful. I am very good at learning new things.” The guard hoisted the chain and lifted her until her toes were only just touching the ground. “Now, if you’re ready to talk, just say my name: ‘Gisbourne’ and we’ll take a break and have a little chat.”  


With that, he stepped away, and Indira heard the unmistakable sound of a whip uncoiling. She’d thought she was ready, thought that she was someone who could face torture with gritted teeth and a quip like the heroes in the stories she and Rosie had spent hours poring over in the Circle library.  


But she was wrong.  


She held out for the first few lashes, but then it was too much. She screamed as the treated leather wound around her side and up and down her back. She could feel the skin tearing as Gisbourne plied his trade, flaying her alive it felt like. Every few strokes he would crack the whip close to her, but not on her, and she could feel herself flinch and tense. Then, abruptly, the sounds stopped. She tried to blink past the sweat and tears, tried to turn to see what was happening, but before she could she felt the shock of freezing water on her back. For that first moment the shock was enough to insulate her, but then the wounds on her back began to burn.  


“Salt water,” Gisbourne said, stepping up and grabbing her chin. He held her tightly as she writhed and screamed and cursed, and when she was reduced to barely audible whimpers, he nodded. “Anything to say yet, Warden?”  


Indira shook her head and heard the human sigh. “As you like,” he said. He walked away and Indira had only the sound of a chain rapidly moving as a warning before she plummeted suddenly to the floor. She landed hard and only the fact that the air was forced from her lungs on impact kept her from screaming. The manacles at her wrists were removed and then she was jerked roughly to her feet. She felt the cold of Gisbourne’s armor against her back and reflexively tried to bring up a barrier, only to feel the weight of his templar abilities crushing down on her.  


“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Gisbourne said, grabbing her chin and turning her head so that she had no choice to see what was in front of her.  


The Rack.  


_Creators, please help me,_ Indira begged silently as she was forced forward and quickly tied at the wrists and ankles to the machine. _Please help me be strong._ She couldn’t reveal that Arl Eamon was planning to put Alistair forward as the rightful Heir. It would give Loghain time to react.  


She heard the massive ratchet mechanism work and then her body began to move, being pulled inexorably towards the opposite ends of the machine. She could hear herself whimpering with fear and pain, but Gisbourne was terrifyingly slow and methodical. She realized with horror that at this pace he could keep her on the rack for hours before the merciful embrace of death claimed her.  


She was crying again with terror and fear, and it took a minute to realize that the pressure had ceased to build. Gisbourne came to stand next to her, crossing his arms. “How does that feel, Warden?” he asked.  


She closed her eyes and gave a little shake of her head, closing her eyes. _Alistair, I’m so sorry,_ she thought as Gisbourne moved away from her. The other warden seemed so young to her, but he had a good heart. He would fight the archdemon, he would die defending the people of Ferelden. Though she didn’t reciprocate his romantic feelings, she had always seen them fighting side by side until the end. It looked like he would be facing it alone. She was strong, she knew that, but she was fading. Everything just hurt so badly. She was so tired. They had been months fighting the blight, and Loghain, and darkspawn, and all she wanted was to curl up with a book and not feel this massive responsibility.  


She must have faded out for a moment, because the next thing she knew she was being shaken awake by Gisbourne. He was holding something very bright over her face. It took some effort for her eyes to focus on it, but when they did, she screamed.  


The Chantry sunburst.  


He was going to make her Tranquil.  


But when they were making you Tranquil, they didn’t apply the sunburst to your cheeks, or the bottoms of your feet, or the back of your neck, or your belly, or any of the other dozens of places that Gisbourne saw fit to apply the brand. She knew she lost consciousness more than once, but Gisbourne always brought her back with freezing salt water.  
Somewhere in the distance someone was muttering “nonononononono” over and over, and it took her a disturbingly long time to realize that it was her. She couldn’t break, she couldn’t betray her friends. 

She would die first.  


She _would_ die first.  


She was so lost in her own misery that she didn’t realize that Gisbourne had stopped hurting her right away. The older man sighed and reached out to brush his thumb over one of the brands on her face. “I am impressed,” he said gravely. “But you will break. They all do.” He walked away from her and she heard the sound of wood banging on stone. She whimpered and reflexively tried to pull away when she felt Gisbourne’s hands at her ankles, undoing the bindings.  


“Last chance to talk today,” he said as her arms fell limply to her sides, sending waves of agony through her shoulders.  


What would it matter if she did? What would it matter if she told him what Loghain likely already knew?  


No.  


_You’re stronger than that_ , she told herself, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.  


“Fuck….you,” she managed to grit out and heard his answering snarl. She was picked up like a sack of potatoes, and then she was falling down into darkness.  


She landed hard, much too hard to scream, and found herself writhing and twitching on a rough stone floor that stank of copper and feces.  


“In the morning, I will give you a healing poultice,” Gisbourne said, his voice coming from what sounded like a long way above her. “And we will begin again.”  


She glanced up in time to see the square of light disappear with a loud clang and as utter darkness closed around her she realized that she’d been thrown down into an oubiette. She’d always thought those were something that only existed in stories. Creators, even if her friends came for her, how would they ever find her?

####

Zevran tightened his grip on his sword as the wave of memories assailed him at the sight of the Rack. It had been many years since that particular portion of his induction into the Crows, but he supposed that one never forgot being tortured.  


It did not matter. What mattered was rescuing the Gray Warden. His Gray warden. Zevran’s glib tongue and quick wit and gotten them past the guards and ultimately they’d only had to kill a handful of people once inside Fort Drakkon.  


And now it looked like they only had to kill one more.  


A man in a Templar uniform stood with his back to them applying oil to the mechanisms of the machine and Zevran put a finger to his lips as he looked at Sten. The Qunari nodded and they silently made their way down together. Sten was always quicker than one expected, and his arm shot out and wrapped around the Templar’s neck before he could react. The man struggled until Sten began to cut off his air, then he went still. Sten turned around holding the man in front of him and Zevran smiled coldly him.  


“Good evening,” he said, inclining his head. “I have come to make inquiries regarding a friend of mine. The Gray Warden that was recently taken into custody.”  


The Templar’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but he did not speak.  


Zevran forced down the surge of rage. They had found Indira’s belongings already. They knew that she was there.  


Sten tightened his arm and the man’s eyes went a little wide.  


“My friend is not as patient as I am,” Zevran said.  


“The little elf bitch,” the man said, his pale eyes finding Zevran’s.  


Zevran’s hand tightened on the blade. “She is an elf, yes,” he said with carefully cultivated calm.  


“She’s not here,” the man said. “I got what I needed from her, so I gave her to the men to do with what they like.” His lip curled. “I doubt there will be much left of her when they are done.”  


Zevran throttled down the surge of horror and stepped forward and deftly undid the straps holding the templar armor, catching it before it could crash to the ground. Then he stepped back and put his sword to the man’s chest. “Where is she?” he repeated in a voice that only shook a little. The thought of something like that happening to Indira raised a panic in him that he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. He would have answers out of this man, one way or another.  


“Kill me and you will never find out where she is,” the man said and Zevran had to give credit where it was due, he sounded remarkably steady.  


“A valid point,” he gritted out. “Sten, put our friend here on the rack. I hear it is very good at extracting things that people do not wish to say.”  


The templar’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”  


Zevran stepped closer to him, narrowing his eyes. “Are you certain that I would not?” he asked, pitching his voice low and cold. “If you are, keep your silence. Otherwise, I would suggest telling me what I want to know.”  


“Will you let me live?” The templar asked.  


“That depends on how quickly you tell me,” Zevran said. “And how badly you hurt her.”  


The templar blanched and Zevran’s heart sank. _I am so sorry we were not faster, Amora,_ he thought. He steeled himself. The time for apologies would be later. For now they needed to find her.  


“The oubliette,” the man said, his eyes darting to the right where Zevran saw a wooden trap door with a heavy bolt. “She’s in the oubliette.” He struggled in Sten’s arms as Zevran stepped closer. “I was just following orders! I could have done much worse to her. I could have done what I said and gave her to the men, or taken her myself, or-”  


“The fact that you did not rape your prisoner is hardly a compelling argument,” Zevran said. “At least with me. Perhaps your ‘Maker’ will feel differently.” He slit the man’s throat then without further comment, stepping out of the way of the spray of blood. Sten let him drop with a grimace of disgust and followed Zevran to the trap door.  


Zevran threw the bolt and yanked the trapdoor open, recoiling at the stench of blood, shit, and urine. It was dark below, but he thought that he heard a little whimper.  


“Amora?” he called down, crouching. “Indira?”  


Silence.  


Sten appeared at his side with a torch. “I will go down.”  


“No,” Zevran said, sheathing his blade and taking the torch. “I will. We will need you to lift us out of there.” Even if the worst had happened, he could not leave Indira in a place like this. He cast his eyes about and saw a coil of rope sitting on a bloodstained table. He picked it up and tied a loop in the bottom before sitting down on the edge of the black, reeking hole. He put his foot in the loop, then tossed the rope to Sten. “You can lift us both, can you not?”  


Sten snorted and motioned for Zevran to go.  


Zevran took a deep breath, then eased himself off of the edge and down into the abyss. The oubliette was not as deep as he was expecting, and after a few tense moments the light from the torch illuminated a sight that took away his breath.  


Indira was lying sprawled on her side, and even in the dim light Zevran could see that she had been badly wounded. He wriggled out of the rope and dropped the remaining few feet, landing heavily. 

“Brasca!” he swore, kneeling next to her. He leaned close and could have cried when he felt the damp heat of her breath on his cheek.“Amora,” he whispered, reaching out and lightly touching her cheek.  


“Zevran?” she whispered in a weak, ragged voice. Her eyes were still closed, but hearing her voice un-knotted something inside of him.  


“It is I,” Zevran said, trying to force some levity into his voice and failing. “Amora, you are safe, I am here. We have come to rescue you.”  


“Thank-” her voice faded as her head lolled to the side.  


He was quick to tie the rope around her, tugging twice on it to indicate that Sten should begin to pull. Indira let out a cry of pain that tore at his heart as she began to rise, but there was nothing else for it. Sten was efficient as he was in all things, and soon they were both out of the hole. He knelt next to Indira, his hands shaking as he took in her injuries.  


“Kadan,” Sten said sadly. He glanced down at Zevran. “They have tortured her,” he said and Zevran could only nod.  


“We need to get her to Wynne,” the Qunari continued, reaching to pick Indira up.  


“Let me,” Zevran managed to rasp. “You must protect us. And carry her things, they must be here somewhere. She’d never forgive me for leaving her staff.” He swallowed past the giant lump in his throat and picked her up as gently as he could. She gave a little moan, and Zevran felt as though an iron weight was squeezing his heart. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “Soon you will be safe, my Grey Warden, I swear it.”  


By some insane luck, their journey out of the fort was far less interesting than their journey in. Sten found a blood-soaked blanket to wrap Indira in so that no one could see that it was her and together they made their way back to Arl Eamon’s manor. The journey was a blur to Zevran, all he could think of was the awful little moans of pain that she made every so often. He’d never seen anyone so badly wounded in all of his years as an assassin. He wished fervently that he hadn’t given the templar such a clean death.  


Servants and their friends swarmed around them once they were inside, and Zevran heard someone screaming for Wynne. She came quickly and then they were in Indira’s room, unwrapping her and laying her in the bed.  


“Everyone out!” Wynne snapped, shooing a terrified looking Alistair and a stricken Leliana from the room. “There isn’t a moment to lose.”  


“I cannot leave her,” Zevran panted. “Wynne, please. Do not make me go!”  


She hesitated, then nodded, and sent him to get clean clothing, blankets, and hot water. She allowed him to help clean Indira’s many wounds, and he found himself falling back on his training to tune out her awful cries of pain. There were tears streaming down Zevran’s face by the time the Healer nodded her satisfaction and began to cast her magic. He could only watch, rapt, as the awful brands faded into new pink scars, then nothing. The deep cuts from what he assumed was a whip closed, and the bruises turned blue, to green, to yellow, then faded as well. He saw Indira take a deep breath and then her breathing settled into an even rhythm.  


Wynne stumbled a little as she turned, and Zevran caught her by the elbow and led her over to an armchair.  


“Thank you, dear,” Wynne said.  


For a moment Zevran couldn’t answer, and then he found himself on his knees, resting his forehead on the old woman’s knees as he clutched her hands like a frightened child. He’d thought that he was out of tears to shed after their ordeal, but it was not so. Instead he found himself bawling and whispering “gracias” over and over.  


Wynne let him cry himself out, then gave his hands a gentle tug. “Go and get cleaned up, child,” she said with a small smile. She held up her hands to still his retort. “You’ll give the poor girl a fright if she wakes up seeing you like that. I will be right here. I promise you she will never be alone.”  


Zevran was too drained to argue, and Eamon’s helpful servants had anticipated his needs. He found a steaming bath waiting for him and availed himself of it quickly. Once he was less frightening to behold, or smell, he hurried back to Indira’s room. Wynne was still there, though she had been joined by the big qunari. Sten was standing by the door, his arms crossed, clearly intent on making sure their friend was undisturbed.  


“Has she woken up yet?” he asked, pulling a chair up next to the bed and gently taking Indira’s hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, but there was no response.  


“Not yet,” Wynne said. “Probably not until morning.” She yawned and rose. “I take it both of you plan to stay the night in here?”  


“Naturally,” Zevran said.  


“Yes,” Sten growled.  


Wynne gave them both a tired smile. “Then this old woman is going to go to bed. I know you will come and get me if need be.” She limped from the room, her hand in her lower back, and Zevran settled in to wait out the night.  


He must have been more tired than he realized, because the next thing he knew someone was screaming.

Indira thrashed, struggling to get away from Gisbourne and his brand. She could feel its heat, but everything was dark, so dark! Creators, had he taken her eyes? And then there were hands on her shoulders, gentle hands, but so strong, pinning her down. “No,” she begged. “Please no…”  


“Indira,” a familiar voice said. “Amora, you are safe, I swear to you.”  


“I can’t see,” she whimpered.  


She heard a muffled curse, then felt a warm wet cloth on her face. She blinked, and vague blurry shapes resolved themselves into the concerned faces of Zevran and Sten.  


“Zev?” she heard herself whimper. “Sten?”  


“Kadan,” Sten said with a rare smile. “It is good to see you awake.”  


Zevran didn’t say anything, his lips looked like they were trying to twist into a smile, but they were wobbling a little bit. “Amora,” he finally whispered. “My Grey Warden.”  


Sten looked back and forth between them and with a final awkward pat on Indira’s shoulder, he left, mentioning something about letting Wynne know she was awake.  


Indira looked into her lover’s eyes and with a wince, scooted over a little bit on her bed. She patted the mattress next to her and Zevran slid under the covers and immediately took her in his arms. She turned on her side and rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes as his arms wrapped tightly around her. “You came after me,” she whispered.  


“Of course,” he replied, pressing his lips to her hair. “Amora, how could I not?”  


She nuzzled into him, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Zevran,” she said. “I-I don’t know what I would have done if-”  


“Shhhh,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Hermosa, knowing you, you would have found a way to escape. I am sure if we had not arrived when we did, we would have found Fort Drakkon a smouldering ruin. We saved them really.”  


She gave a rusty sounding chuckle. “You’re lying.”  


“Lying is such a harsh word,” Zevran retorted. His arms tightened. “It matters not,” he said. “You are here, and I will never let anyone hurt you again.” It was a promise he couldn’t keep and they both knew it, but it mattered to her that he made it nonetheless.


End file.
